What is he thinking?

That is the question most often in my mind as I watch the husband. He lies in his bed looking peaceful, but his breathing takes off at times and his eyes open wide. I wonder if he is actually seeing something other than the ceiling when his eyes are open.

He doesn’t seem to be in pain. I wonder, if death doesn’t come with pain, what does it come with? How does it feel to the person dying? Sometimes he makes sounds that could indicate pain and that sound like pain signals to me, but then they cease without any treatment. I remember the vivid dreams he often had that would make him shout and cry out (and punch and kick!) Is that what’s happening as his mind lets go. Does he have real memories? Do his dreams mirror reality or are they even more frightening?

My intuition tells me the end is very close. Close enough so that I am hesitant to leave, even for a short while. I want him to feel like there is someone with him as long as he’s here. I know he doesn’t always know who is with him, but he does act more calm when he’s not alone. He knows someone is there.

I have mixed feelings about friends and family who ask if they should come, and that’s actually a good thing. The ones who come because they can, or need to for their own reasons, they are welcome and help me feel supported. The ones who can’t come, no matter what the reason, are also helping. I am glad they are preserving memories of the husband that are far more dignified, heartwarming, and joyful than the memories I am making now. I’m okay not having everyone seeing him go through this.

If I could see his spirit I’m sure this experience would be different. Unfortunately, what I see is his body, the damaged shell his spirit has to reside in. There is nothing pleasant or easy about watching someone die. In my career as a nurse, I’ve seen death fairly often. I suppose that helps me some now – at least I am not surprised. But each death is unique, and I’ve never seen my husband die.

At night, I most often pull the recliner up next to his bed, so I can take his hand when he seems to be agitated. I’ve gotten used to the signs that mean he needs to change position. I sleep with the sound of his breathing in my ears, either loud and wet or so quiet and shallow that I need to look. Breath and life are so closely allied that the physical action of drawing in air takes in a sacredness. I wonder which one will be his last.

I wonder, I wonder, I wonder… I wonder if he is trying to let go, or struggling not to. I wonder if he’s even aware that it is time.